His hand disappeared into dark space. The passage turned to the left. Fronto nodded. Of course, it would have to turn back on itself or it would come out two thirds way up the cliff. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the space, feeling for more. Yes. It only went a few feet and then turned left again. Nodding with satisfaction, convinced now that this was the route the enemy had taken, Fronto explored with his hands. The passageway seemed to be opening out at this point, much wider and more spacious. Perhaps this was now a natural passage they were in? It was so hard to tell in this stygian darkness.
A few more steps brought him to the next turn and, as he carefully edged round, he was surprised by a yellow glow. Perhaps fifty feet down the long, straight passageway, a lamp flickered on a ledge, illuminating the tunnel. The light was low and small, but felt like the glare of the sun after the darkness behind him. Fronto smiled as he realised that this part of the tunnel was quite wide and high for most of its length.
He paused, blinking. The light had, of course, ruined his night vision, resulting in purple and yellow blotches dancing around in his eyes no matter how much he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut. Why would they leave a light to help…
It was only that sudden thought that saved his life.
The Veneti warrior who had been lurking in the darkness behind a section of jutting wall, his back to the light source and fully attuned to the dark, lunged forward with his blade aimed resolutely for Fronto’s neck. The legate was already moving to the side as the man leapt, the blade connecting instead with the shoulder section of his cuirass and scything through the fasteners. The shoulder piece flapped loose as the sword ripped on through it, deprived of a solid target, and the point hammered home into the wall of the tunnel.
With a breath of relief, Fronto stepped to his left twice, away from the blow, trying to get the flickering of the lamp out of his vision so that he could see better. There was a clunk and a shifting of weight as the front and back pieces of his cuirass separated at the shoulder, becoming instantly irritating and uncomfortable.
The Gaul was hauling his blade back for a second blow, though the long Celtic weapon was unwieldy in the confined space. The well-designed gladius in Fronto’s hand, however, was subject to no such restrictions. Unwilling to allow the man enough time to make another careful blow, Fronto stabbed with his sword repeatedly into the rough area of the Gaul, the dancing blotches in his eyes making targeting difficult. Still, given the closeness, at least three of his six sharp lunges connected and he heard a gasp and a gurgle.
Stepping back, he tried to focus. Slowly his vision cleared as he saw the body of the Veneti warrior crumple to the floor. Lucky… very lucky.
Fronto turned to the legionary behind him.
“Try not to look at the light. Keep your eyes low.”
Stopping for a moment to try and adjust his shoulder, he fidgeted at it irritably and gave up in disgust. The shoulder piece was ruined. A job for the armourers next time they had a minute. They didn’t have time now…
Back and above, he could hear the legionaries pouring into the tunnel, making a noise like a hundred iron plates being dropped into a well. So much for sneaky…
Gesturing to Capito, he moved on downwards. The way was easier, but they moved warily, watching for more hidden figures to left and right. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the lamp and Fronto gratefully turned left to peer down the next corridor, putting his back to the dancing light.
For the second time in as many minutes, he cheated death as he felt a hand grasp the broken backplate of his cuirass and haul him away from the corner. He toppled backward, caught surprised and off-balance, and landed on Capito whose hand was wrapped tightly around the bronze plate.
The arrow that would have struck Fronto square, and very definitely fatally, in the head sailed past and hit the passage wall with a crack. Fronto blinked.
“Sorry sir” Capito breathed. “Heard the bow string stretch.”
“Crap, you have good hearing. Thanks!”
“What now, sir?”
Fronto smiled.
“If they’re there to shoot at us, it means they haven’t left yet. Hang on.”
Standing, the legate stepped forward gingerly to the corner and peered round the very edge, squinting. The next length of passage, perhaps forty feet long, was lit by dim reflected daylight. The end of the tunnel was sealed with some sort of gate, through which the light filtered. Outside was some sort of wide cavernous opening at sea level. The smell of brine and the distant noise of waves confirmed it. This was the end of it.
He could see two figures moving behind the gate, in some sort of undergrowth. There was the tell-tale stretch of a bow string again and he stepped back.
“Could be a bit troublesome getting down there without being shot.”
The legionary nodded.
“Not much we can do, sir.”
Fronto grumbled. He refused to get this close and be stopped by a damn gate. Behind, the first men of the Eighth legion rounded the corner and moved down to join them. A voice called out.
“Legate Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“Centurion Hosidius of the Eighth. What can we do to help?”
“Anyone back there brought a shield?”
Hosidius paused for a moment and then relayed the question back through his men. There was a murmur of argument back a way and then a voice piped up.
“Got a signifer’s shield, sir. Quite small and round, though.”
Fronto shook his head irritably.
“It’ll have to do. Pass it forward.”
There was a moment of grumbling and muttered complaints as the bulky shield was passed with difficulty along the passage. Eventually an unseen hand passed it to Fronto and he took the item and looked down at it. A circle of red wood and leather perhaps two and a half feet across, emblazoned with the golden bull. Hardly what he really wanted, but apparently the best thing on offer. Fronto turned to Capito.
“As soon as I start to run, get along behind me. Stay close. If I fall, take the shield and keep running. We need to get to that gate and secure it, so that we can get to their ships.”
Capito nodded nervously and Fronto grinned.
“Don’t worry. Fortuna’s a personal friend.”
Without waiting further, the legate took a deep breath, raised the shield, and turned the corner, breaking immediately into a run. He felt the bronze strip at the edge of the shield grating along the rock sides of the tunnel as he ran, but was more concerned about the possibility that, though much of his bulk hunched over behind the shield, a well placed shot could still put an arrow through his thigh.
And yet there was no stretch and no twang. He ran on, but began to falter. Something was wrong. Why were they not at least trying to shoot at him?
Smoke.
His nostril hair curled and he came to a halt, Capito bumping into him again, and risked lowering the shield for a moment.
It had struck him as odd when he first looked down here that there should be undergrowth by the gate in a sea cave. Undergrowth, no…but carefully prepared and dried faggots and bundles of perfectly combustible foliage stacked against the gate? Now that made sense. Fresh flames leapt up among the sticks as he watched, and the entrance to the tunnel began to fill with dense smoke.
“Shit!”
Turning, he pushed Capito and yelled up the passageway.
“Retreat! They’re smoking us out!”
The silence from further up the tunnel erupted into panicked movement as half a century of men turned as fast as they could and began to scramble back up the passageway toward the stronghold above.
The tunnel acted, just as the Veneti had obviously planned, just like the draw hole in the roof of a hut, funnelling the smoke into the passageway and drawing it up toward the boulder entrance on the cliff top.
Fronto coughed as the first cloud of grey, roiling smoke wafted past him.
As fast as they could, they ran back to the
corner with its lamp. Already Hosidius had moved his men up to the next bend.
Ignoring the jagged rock walls tearing at their arms as they ran, Fronto and Capito charged up the slope, the passageway thickening every second with heavy black fumes.
Another corner; and another. And suddenly they were at the back of a column of legionaries desperately clambering through the opening and out into the air.
Fronto coughed raspingly and next to him Capito burst into a fit of choking. Around them the drawn fumes filled the passage, blackening everything and blocking out the light. Everything went dark as men coughed and struggled.
And suddenly an arm grasped his wrist. Fronto squinted into the smoke to see a centurion’s chest harness, adorned with phalera and other decorations. The back of the hand around his arm was criss-crossed with scars.
“Come on, sir. Out of there.”
Fronto sighed with relief as Balventius hauled him out of the entrance and all but threw him back on to the grass before reaching in to retrieve Capito.
Fronto fell back with immeasurable relief, relishing for a moment the heavy rain battering his skin and washing the black dust from his face. He wiped his forehead and eyes and sat up. A huge column of smoke issued from the tunnel entrance, pushing up into the sky like a signal. His euphoria at the sudden breathable air and dull light waned once more as he descended into a racking cough that was matched by a crack of thunder from above.
As the fit subsided, he became aware than another figure had crouched next to him. He squinted up into the rain to see the shiny face of Carbo, his primus pilus, frowning down at him.
“Dangerous, sir. Moments like that are why you have underlings.”
Fronto sighed.
“There wasn’t time. What’s happening?”
Carbo shrugged unhappily.
“They’re leaving, sir. They’re just flitting across the rock shelf as though they’re on wheels. Our fleet can’t pursue them, ‘cause they just can’t get close enough. We can watch where they go, but we can’t follow.”
Fronto growled.
“These people are really starting to piss me off, Carbo.”
Chapter 8
(Iunius: temporary camp on the Armorican coast)
Fronto pushed the tent flap open and made his way out into the dusk, shivering against the cold. Grumbling to himself, he traipsed through the wet grass and across the hilltop to the thicker undergrowth near the cliff’s edge. The interim camp prefect, whose name Fronto had now learned was Draco, had planned their camp so well that the nearest latrines for the officers of the Tenth was more than halfway across the length of the fortress. Consequently, those officers had taken to going near the cliff edge for their business, at least when there were no high winds.
Fronto found the spot nice and easily. A helpful centurion had spelled out ‘Draco’ with small stones for the officers to piss on; a nice touch in Fronto’s opinion. Hoisting the front of his breeches down, he began to relieve himself with a sigh, grateful for a rare dry evening, even if everything underfoot was still wet through.
His eyes strayed from the rocky name near his feet, across the thick grass and to the bay below, passing across the white-flecked waves and to the next headland, which had, until this afternoon, been one of the most powerful of the Veneti strongholds. He sighed again.
For a month now the legions had been marching up and down the coast, even inland a way to chase yet more shadows that dissipated as soon as the Roman army got close. A whole month of besieging fortresses and chasing elusive bands of warriors and what did the army have to show for their efforts? Nothing. Not a single captive.
Every time the army came close to trapping the Veneti, the Gauls found new and ever more inventive ways to slip out from under their enemy and make it to safety once again. Five more fortresses had fallen in the few weeks after that smoky tunnel had demonstrated to him just how prepared the enemy were. Five more fortresses, and still not a single solid victory.
The moment that had brought him close to breaking point had been when they realised that the Veneti that had fled from the latest conquest had doubled back on them and made their way down to one of the strongholds the legions had already taken once. It was like… it was like trying to nail the sea to a tree; like trying to catch fog in a net. One thing Fronto knew for certain was that Caesar was close to the end of his tether and, when they finally caught the Veneti, Fronto wouldn’t have been among their number for all the gold and wine in the world. The last time Caesar had had this much trouble, near Numantia in Spain, the general had repaid the locals with genocide.
His gaze rested for a long moment on the shattered remains of the headland stronghold, it’s buildings pulled down, walls dropped into the sea, the thicker areas of vegetation fired and still showing from this distance as columns of smoke, and the grass salted to ruin it for generations to come… if there were to be any future generations, that was.
Fronto sighed again and pulled up the front of his breeches, fastening the drawstring. Before he turned away, he made sure to spit once on Draco’s name, a habit rapidly becoming a tradition in the Tenth. Glancing quickly at the sky, which threatened heavy rain again through the night, he strode back across to Tetricus’ tent. The warm glow and murmur of good-natured conversation from within welcomed him.
Pulling the tent flap back, he entered once more and made his way across to his seat among the cushions on the floor.
“I just don’t see what he expects us to do?”
Brutus gestured irritably with one arm before swigging from the cup in the other.
“I mean…” he paused, rubbing his eyes, ”the simple fact is that our ships can’t go out to sea to follow them in those choppy conditions and they can’t get close enough to land to follow them along the coast. All we can do is keep watch. Even when we do get near them, they’re both faster and higher than us.”
Tetricus shrugged.
“Then you’re going to have to find a way to bring them to your level. To even the odds a little.”
“Easier said than done, my friend.”
Tetricus nodded.
“The time will come. In the meantime, how many of these damn strongholds do we have to take before we can pin them down?”
Fronto sat heavily and reached for his own wine.
“I have to admit I am heartily sick of Armorica. For a few days when I got to Vindunum I was actually glad to get out of Rome and back into the field. For the life of me I cannot fathom why!”
Balventius and Carbo shared a look and then the primus pilus of the Eighth smiled.
“It could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be with one of the other armies.”
Fronto frowned and Balventius spread his hands wide.
“You could be with Labienus suffering the worst of both worlds. He has the climate of Gaul and the boredom of no action. He’s just digging aqueducts and teaching the locals the value of Rome while his boots fill with rain.”
Carbo nodded and leaned across in front of him.
“Or you could be with Crassus… actually, that’s enough on its own. You could be with Crassus!”
Fronto chuckled.
“I wonder how everyone else is getting on?”
He leaned back and took another swig.
“Remember the last couple of years? Those times we sat in that nice little tavern in Bibracte?” He grinned meaningfully at Balbus. “Or that charming little place in Vesontio where you broke my nose? I can’t remember there being rain. All I remember when I think back is warm sunshine, bees and the smell of wildflowers.”
Carbo snorted.
“That’s because you went to Spain for the winter. You should have seen the conditions at Vesontio in November. It was like camping in the bottom of a latrine.”
Fronto shrugged with a laugh.
“Fair enough. It’s just this constant rain is beginning to wear my patience away, particularly when combined with our inability to na
il the Veneti down. It just feels like we’re wasting our time out here while the Gods piss on us for fun. The only time it stops raining is when the bloody thunder clouds need time to gather to give us yet another storm.”
Brutus nodded.
“But that can’t go on forever. At least if the weather clears up the fleet might have more of a chance to prove itself. We’ve been sat pretty much port-bound for the last fortnight.”
Balbus smiled and leaned forward.
“We need a plan. We need to trap the Veneti and their fleet in the same place with no means of escape. If we can do that, we can force a conclusion to all this.”
He reached up and thumped himself a couple of times gently on the chest before wincing and sliding his unfinished cup of wine back onto the low table.
“You alright?” Fronto asked, his brow furrowing.
“Just heartburn. It’s this cheap and nasty wine, and the quantity of it, of course.”
Tetricus raised his eyebrow.
“Cheap and nasty? You have no idea how much I had to pay Cita to get that. It’s some of his special reserve store.”
Balbus grinned at him.
“Still tastes like a gladiator’s sandal!”
“You’re just sore because you haven’t won a game of dice in three days.”
Fronto leaned back with his wine and let the ensuing good-natured argument wash over him like a warm bath, soaking him in comfort. Grimacing for a moment, he shifted his supporting weight to his right arm. His left had made an almost full recovery after the spear wound last year, but prolonged pressure still made it ache painfully.
Funny how many things had changed in just over two years. When they were chasing the Helvetii, the people in this tent would have been so different, with Priscus, Velius, Longinus and others. No Carbo or Brutus in those days, though. The seasons changed and, along with them, so did the people around him, but the central fact never changed: these were the core of people that made Caesar’s army what it was.
He smiled sadly at the recollection of friends gone and currently absent and realised, with surprise, that events had taken such a turn that he’d never had the opportunity to review the situation of promotions within the Tenth’s centurionate. Clearly Carbo had settled into the role of primus pilus comfortably and Fronto was hardly about to put that under review. The permanently happy-looking Carbo had a strange and yet infectious sense of humour and a wicked mind for practical jokes, as Fronto was starting to discover after the third night in a row of waking with a start next to a frog that sat staring silently at him.
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